Chapter 35 Lyra
Lyra
Iwake to the smell of herbs and iron.
For a moment I don’t know where I am. Only that the bed is too warm, too crowded, the blankets tangled around my legs, and the air tastes of ass. I desperately need to clean my teeth.
My body aches in that deep, stubborn way it always does after a gruelling training session. And my palms throb dully, scars pulling when I flex my fingers.
I don’t feel particularly well.
I blink, slowly, and the room swims into focus. Eres sits on the edge of the bed closest to me, his hair mussed and his midnight eyes sharper than they should be at this hour. There’s barely any light coming through the window.
He has a cloth draped over one shoulder and his healer’s belt spread out on a small table beside him, vials and bandage rolls laid out with quiet efficiency. His fingers press lightly to the inside of my wrist, counting my pulse.
He looks up when I stir. “Don’t sit up.”
“I wasn’t…,” I start. My voice is raspy, my throat dry.
Eres’s brows lift in a look that says he doesn’t believe me. I sigh when he reaches out and hands me a cup filled with water. “You were going to.”
I swallow and try my best to stay still without spilling it down me. “How long did I sleep?”
He glances toward the narrow window. “Not long enough, considering.”
My head turns. Darian lies between where I am, and where Kaelen climbed in beside him. His hair is a dark spill across the pillow, his mouth parted. A bruise shadows his temple, more still visible over his shirtless chest that rises and falls, slow and steady.
There’s a faint crease between his brows, even in sleep.
Kaelen’s side of the bed is empty. The sheets there look cold.
My throat tightens. “Where is he?”
Eres follows my gaze. “Talking about formations and choke points. He has a lot to do today, but you’ll see him tonight.”
“Tonight?”
His smile is something close to a secret. “You’ll see.”
Part of me is relieved that he’s not here, that I don’t have to face him again. Part of me wishes he was here anyway. “He was angry.”
“He was.” Eres runs his hand over my brow, cupping my cheek. “And so was I.”
Outside of the room, the castle is awake in a way I haven’t heard before. Footsteps echo, up and down the corridor. Voices bark in the distance, sharp with urgency. Someone shouts an order about the west rampart. “What’s happening?”
Eres gracefully picks up my distraction. “Everyone is preparing.”
Because the Lightbringers are coming. My stomach knots.
Eres’s fingers leave my pulse and move to my face when I flinch. He tilts my chin gently, inspecting my cheekbones, my eyes. “Headache?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“Worse when you move?”
“Yes.” He hums softly, then reaches for his belt and produces a small vial. “Drink.”
I open my mouth and he tips it, letting a few bitter drops fall onto my tongue that spread warmth down my throat. “What concoction is this? You seem to have an endless amount.”
He half-smiles. “Something that stops you pretending you’re fine.”
Despite myself, a laugh threatens. It turns into a cough. Eres’s eyes soften. “Rest today, Lyra.”
“I can’t,” I say automatically. I’m not sure I even know how to rest.
Eres’s gaze sharpens. “You can.”
I shift my eyes toward Darian, still asleep. “He—”
“I’m checking him next,” Eres says, already sliding his hand under the blanket to feel Darian’s forehead. “He’s still quilled, but the new batch of antidote will be done later today. Mild concussion, bruising. He’ll live.”
Darian’s eyes snap open abruptly, as if he was listening. His gaze lands on Eres first, then flicks to me. For a heartbeat, he looks relieved. Then his face hardens.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough from sleep. I suddenly find myself unsure what to do with my limbs.
Darian pushes himself up, wincing. His hand goes to his temple. “Ow.”
Eres presses two fingers lightly to Darian’s pulse with a calm expression. “You’re not dying,” he says drily. “Try not to feel too upset.”
“I’m fine.” Darian glares at him.
But Eres’s expression remains unimpressed. “There's a lot of that going around. You’re alive. That’s not the same thing.”
The blanket slips lower, revealing bruises along Darian's ribs and small cuts on his shoulder. Nothing too serious. But enough to remind me how close it came anyway.
Eres’s gaze flicks to me again. “Rest,” he repeats, firmer.
“She won’t.” I open my mouth to protest, but Darian keeps going, voice sharpening. “Because she apparently thinks she has to earn her place here by bleeding for it.”
My chest tightens. Eres’s mouth tightens as well, but his hand stays gentle as he checks Darian’s head. “Don’t,” he warns softly. “We’ve been through this.”
“I haven’t.” Darian’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. There’s anger there, anger edged with something else, something almost shaky. “You shouldn’t have come.”
I swallow. “You shouldn’t have left.”
His jaw clenches. “I had reasons.”
“So did I,” I snap, surprising myself with how quickly my own frustration rises. It’s easier than admitting what I felt in that moment. Easier than admitting I couldn’t bear the thought of him being taken.
Darian exhales. “You could have died.”
“So could you.” I hold his gaze. “But you don’t seem to care about that.”
He looks away, his throat working. And Eres gets to his feet, closing his belt around his waist with an efficient snap.
“I’m going to go check the healing quarters.” His tone is deliberately brisk. “There might be more injuries before the last of the patrols come in. And I will not come back to find either of you wandering the castle like idiots.”
Darian’s mouth twitches. “We won’t.”
Eres looks at me pointedly, and I roll my eyes weakly. “I heard you.”
Eres pauses with his hand on the door, and his gaze softens. “Lyra,” he says quietly. “Your body is not infinite. If you burn out before the Lightbringers reach our gates, you won’t be able to help anyone.”
The reminder hits hard, and I nod. Eres doesn’t look like he believes me, but he leaves anyway. The door clicks closed behind him.
Silence settles in the room, broken only by distant castle noise and Darian’s slow breathing. He rubs his face with both hands, then drags them down, exhaling.
He looks tired. Not just physically.
“You’re angry,” I say softly.
His eyes flick to mine. “Yes.”
“Because I risked myself.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re grateful.”
His mouth tightens. “Also yes.”
“I didn’t do it to prove anything,” I whisper.
Darian’s gaze searches my face. “Then why did you do it?”
Because you nearly broke Kaelen, I almost say. And Eres. And you nearly broke me.
But I don’t say that.
“Because you’re ours,” I whisper, and the word slips out before I can reshape it into something safer. “And because I was faster than Kaelen.”
He lets out a low huff of something that might be amusement and sits up more fully, swinging his legs off the bed. He winces again, then steadies, his shoulders squaring. “Get dressed.”
I blink. “Your newfound obedience didn’t last long.”
“I want to take you somewhere,” he says, looking at me. “It’s important. No fighting required. Will you come?”
My stomach dips. “Darian, Eres just—”
“You need to see this,” he says, and his tone leaves no room for argument. “And besides, Kaelen gave his permission. I asked him after Sera was injured.”
That stops me.
I dress slowly, my hands a little unsteady as I lace my boots and scrub at my teeth with minted paste. Darian pulls on his shirt and outer layers with stiff movements, wincing when he lifts his arms. The blows he took are still affecting him. I can see it in the sluggishness of his fingers.
When we step into the corridor, the castle is in full movement around us.
Soldiers in leather hurry past, weapons strapped to their bodies and faces grim.
Someone hauls a crate of arrows. Another carries coils of rope.
Eldritch’s voice echoes from somewhere down the hall, barking about rotating watch patrols.
No one looks at me too long. Perhaps they’ve decided there’s no time for suspicion inside Umbraxis when death is already approaching the gates. “We should help.”
“We will.” His hand slips into mine. “This first.”
Darian leads me through familiar passageways at first, the ones I’ve learned since being dragged half-dead into Umbraxis. Past the healer’s quarters. Past the council chamber. Down the main stairwell, where banners bearing the Duskbane crest hang heavy and dark and dusty from lack of cleaning.
Then he turns down a narrow side corridor I’ve never taken.
It slopes downward, growing steeper and colder with every step. “Is this where I find out you’re tired of hosting a rebel Lightbringer and get buried beneath the ground?”
His finger flicks at my nose. “I will never grow tired of you.”
My skin prickles. “How far down does this go, exactly?”
“Far enough that nobody can accidentally discover it.” We pass two guards, stationed at a door reinforced with iron bands. They straighten when they see Darian, eyes shifting to me and tightening with suspicion. They look far more alert than the boys Kaelen put on my cell.
Darian lifts a hand. “Kaelen gave permission.”
The guard hesitates, then steps aside, unlocking the door. It swings inward with a soft groan, and warmer air pours out. It takes me a moment to place the scent.
Not herbs, exactly. Something… sweet. Like baked bread. And something else layered beneath it; the faintest scent of soap and woodsmoke and the chalk I used for learning back in Solvandyr.
My heart stutters.
Darian steps through first. I follow, and the door closes behind us with a heavy click. The corridor beyond us stretches long and straight. The stone here is smoother, older. Torches line the walls. There are doors along both sides. Some open, some closed.
From behind one, I hear a soft giggle.
A giggle.
My breath catches, and I stop walking.
Darian glances back. His eyes are steady, but there’s something tender there too. “Come on.”
We walk, and I listen.
The giggle becomes louder, joined by another voice.
A small, high-pitched argument ensues about something trivial and yet fiercely important.
Small feet patter on stone. A soft thump like something dropped.
A woman’s voice, older and firmer than the chorus of disappointment that follows it, scolds gently.
My chest tightens until breathing becomes difficult as we reach the first open doorway.
The room is… warm. Low tables are scattered around the floor.
Cushions are everywhere, large and comfortable-looking, colorful and bright.
Shelves against the far wall are lined with beautifully, carefully carved wooden animals, cloth dolls and bundles of colored string.
There’s chalk dust on part of the floor, where someone has drawn circles and stars, and I spot a row of impossibly small boots, lined up neatly by the right wall.
And in the center of the room—
Children.